


To Keep a Stilinski Down

by liamthebastard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emetophobia trigger, Fluff, M/M, Sickness, So much snuggling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1467181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamthebastard/pseuds/liamthebastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is invoking the sacred human right of sick days and Derek can just leave him the flip alone.<br/>Except apparently werewolves don't understand that concept, and now the Alpha won't leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Keep a Stilinski Down

**Author's Note:**

> So today I wasn't feeling well -still am not actually- and I just really needed some H/C fluff to help me feel better and this happened. Potential trigger for emetophobia, seeing as Stiles is sick with a flu bug that causes him symptoms shockingly similar to my own, and he does vomit at one point, so read with caution if that's a trigger for you (If you'd like to skip it, it begins at "Stiles starts to babble" and ends with ""C'mon, you need to lay down"")

There’s a tapping at his window, but Stiles can’t be bothered to get up from bed and open it. If someone needs something, they’re just going to have to call like a _normal person_ and ask that way. 

Of course, certain Alphas wouldn’t know normal if it bit them on their overly-pert ass, so two seconds later, the window creaks open and a blast of icy air pours through it along with a werewolf. 

“Jesus fuck, Derek, it’s like ten degrees out! Close the damn window before I freeze to death,” Stiles grumbles, tugging his blankets up to his chin and snuggling deeper into them. Derek doesn’t reply, and Stiles is too cold and tired to bother rolling over to decode whatever his eyebrows are trying to say. 

“You won’t freeze to death from two minutes of cold air, Stiles,” Derek points out, but a second later the window is shut and the room feels marginally warmer, so he can go suck a lemon. Stiles hears him come closer, the floorboards creaking. “Get up, I need everything you’ve got on harpies.”

Stiles groans. “Didn’t your pups tell you? No Stiles today, or tomorrow. I’m reserving my right as the only human in this little group to take a few sick days,” he explains, burrowing his head into the pillows. His headache, which had barely abated when Derek arrived, is back with a vengeance, and pretty soon he’s going to puke all over that stupid leather jacket, he just knows it. Which is a whole new level of embarrassment he hasn’t reached yet with Derek, so that’ll be exciting. 

“They’re out, but that explains why Isaac sounded so freaked on the phone,” Derek muses out loud. Stiles groans again. 

“Just stop _talking_ ,” Stiles says. His eyes are squeezed shut, have been since Derek tumbled through the window, so he jumps when a warm hand suddenly brushes across his forehead. 

His eyes fly open, to find Derek crouched by his bed, running a hand over his brow with a deeper-than-usual frown on his face. “You really are sick,” Derek marvels. 

“No shit, Sherlock. It takes a lot to keep a Stilinski down, but when it happens, it gets ugly,” Stiles starts to babble, but then his stomach lurches, and he cuts himself off as he sprints to the bathroom. He barely makes it, hurling the little bit of soup and medicine he’s gotten into him since the last time the nausea hit him straight into the toilet bowl. Even once his stomach is empty, the heaves continue, leaving him sore and exhausted when they pass. 

He rests his head against the cool porcelain, his body shaking with shivers and the aftershocks of being ill. He assumes Derek has left, thoroughly disgusted by the acrid scent of vomit if nothing else. Clearly, though, today needs to get more embarrassing, because a cool washcloth is pressed against the back of his neck and over his forehead, wiping away the sweat and leaving him feeling a bit cleaner. A moment later, it sweeps over the corner of his mouth, wiping up what must be a bit of bile, which, okay, gross, but he does feel better once the cloth leaves his skin. 

“C’mon, you need to lay down,” Derek mumbles, wrapping a strong arm around Stiles’s waist and essentially picking him up and _carrying_ him back to his bedroom. 

_Hello, humiliation, my old friend,_ Stiles thinks to himself as Derek tucks him under the covers. Now the heat of illness has passed, leaving Stiles cold and shaking. Stiles shivers silently for a few minutes, feeling fuzzy and out of it. 

Derek studies him, but Stiles isn’t really present enough to take in the dark, worried gaze that’s settling over him. “Cold?” Derek asks. Stiles has barely nodded before the wolf climbs into bed with him, sliding his super-heater body under the blankets right up along Stiles’s body and spreading the warmth across Stiles’s clammy skin. 

Against his better judgment, Stiles curls closer to the heat, and Derek, in response, wraps both his arms around him, tugging Stiles until he’s half-sprawled over Derek’s chest. “Now sleep,” Derek orders, effectively shutting down any half-assed attempt Stiles’s brain was making to try to make sense of the situation. 

Stiles matched his breathing to the rise and fall of Derek’s chest, and soon he was drifting off to sleep. 

 

*

 

When he wakes up, Stiles is cold again. His personal space heater has disappeared, and Stiles frowns a bit. He’s starting to feel better, but he mourns the loss of someone who, at least for a little bit, took care of him. His dad was working a double shift, and he wasn’t so good with illness anyway. His mom had been great at it, always making him homemade chicken noodle soup without any carrots, because Stiles hated them. If he thinks really hard about it, he can actually kind of smell the soup now. 

Wait. That’s not memory-soup smell. That’s _actual_ soup smell. With a bit of effort, Stiles gets out of bed and wraps himself in a blanket. He stumbles downstairs to the kitchen where he finds what _has_ to be a hallucination brought on by fever because there’s just no way in hell _Derek Hale_ is in his kitchen making _chicken soup_ in an honest to God _apron_. 

“You know you’re saying all that out loud?” Derek says without turning around. Stiles flushes, but hey, he’s sick, he’s allowed to lose a bit of his already-sparse filter. “It’ll be ready in about ten, go sit on the couch.”

Stiles, surprisingly, follows the directions. He buries himself in his blanket, rearranging it so he’s in a blanket nest. Once he’s cocooned in fluff, he realizes he could’ve grabbed the remote and had something to do. Now he’s stuck on the couch, exhausted, with nothing to do but listen to Pouty McBroodypants making chicken noodle soup in his kitchen. 

True to his word, Derek comes in with two bowls of steaming hot soup ten minutes later. He sets the bowls down on the coffee table, nudges a spoon towards Stiles, and then crouches down in front of the television. After a few seconds, the television whirs to life, and the menu of the last movie Stiles watched pops up. The menu music plays for a few seconds, but Derek quickly ejects it and replaces it with another disk. The previews run while he walks back across the room, and for a moment, Stiles catches his breath, afraid that now Derek will leave, but no, he just settles next to Stiles and tugs a corner of the blanket over his own body, so his heat fills the space between them. 

“Eat,” Derek orders. “And no, before you ask, there aren’t any carrots.” 

Stiles beams, and happily takes a sip of the soup. He waits with bated breath, waiting for his stomach to flip over and reject the food, but it doesn’t do anything except give a content gurgle. “Awesome!” Stiles proclaims, and takes another bite. It’s pretty decent soup to be honest, tasty and not nearly as salty as the canned stuff his dad tries to pass off as an actual meal. In fact, Stiles hums with each bite, glad he can finally eat something and get the dry taste of sickness out of his mouth. 

He isn’t paying any attention at all to the television until he hears familiar music. He immediately glances up. “How’d you know?” he demands. The soup was a pretty typical sick-day type thing, but there was no way in hell Derek _guessed_ that Pirates of the Caribbean was his feel-better movie of choice. Just the first one, the second and third were good but they didn’t help when he was sick. 

Derek raises an eyebrow, refusing to give up his secret source of Stiles information. Stiles groans, shivering a little bit and taking a huge bite of soup to counteract the sudden chill. Despite his preventative actions, Derek scoots closer and drapes his arm around Stiles’s shoulder, which okay, was good when Stiles was feverish and convinced he was dying, but now was crossing into a very not-platonic-at-all territory. With his free hand, Derek starts eating his own soup, keeping his bowl in his lap and brining the spoon back and forth carefully to keep from spilling. 

Stiles gives up on trying to analyze why the sourwolf is suddenly feeling all snuggly, and instead decides to enjoy it and watch Captain Jack Sparrow swagger around on screen. The moment he finishes his soup, he curls up against Derek, making the most of his cuddly mood and shamelessly abusing his heat-producing capabilities. So yeah, platonic might not be on the menu for this evening, but screw it. Stiles is sick, cold, and frankly a little lonesome, so he’s going to take advantage of the very warm, very attractive person who’s decided to take care of him, even if it makes things awkward for the pack later on. 

He must be more tired than he thought, because Jack and Will have hardly begun their sword fight when he yawns. Derek smiles a little, and wow, smiles look really _really_ nice on him, he should do that more, and rubs little circles on Stiles’s shoulder. “Go ahead and sleep, you need the rest.”

Stiles is already halfway there, but he’s reluctant to sleep just yet. “Stay?” he mutters, burying his face in Derek’s chest. 

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” Derek replies, and Stiles smiles. Derek’s other arm comes up around him, pulls him closer to his chest, and that’s how Stiles falls asleep, stomach full and comfortably warm for the first time in days. 

 

*

 

Stiles only wakes up because Derek suddenly tenses underneath him. “Shhh…” Stiles mumbles, feeling like he’s been talking already. Which figures, really, he usually talks in his sleep like crazy. “Whatever I said, ignore it,” Stiles says, starting to wake up a bit more. He fights it, pushing into Derek’s chest, to try and reclaim some sleep. But it’s too late, he’s up, at least for now, and he’s actually feeling a lot better. He really doesn’t want to move though, at all, so he doesn’t. 

“Thank you for the soup,” he says quietly. 

“You’re welcome,” Derek replies, his arms still around Stiles, warm and strong. 

Stiles nestles closer, trying not to think too much about how comfortable it felt to be held like this, by _Derek_ of all people. “How’d you know ‘bout the carrots?” Stiles asks. It’s not like he advertises his dislike for them, he just doesn’t actively seek them out. 

Derek shifts under him, and if Stiles didn’t know any better he’d say Derek was _uncomfortable_. “I- um. I… may have asked Scott how to make you feel better.” Okay, he was _definitely_ uncomfortable. And that? That’s _awesome_. Stiles props himself up on his elbows, staring down at Derek, who’s blushing furiously and avoiding his gaze. 

“Why, sourwolf, I didn’t know you cared,” Stiles says, and he’s only half joking. It’s… sweet, really, that Derek took the time to not only look after him, but to contact _Scott_ to ask how to do it better. 

“Shut up, it’s just so I get my research sooner,” Derek denies, but Stiles doesn’t have to hear his heartbeat to know he’s lying through his teeth. 

Stiles scoffs as he lies back down against Derek’s chest. “You are such a liar, we’re gonna hafta talk about it,” Stiles mumbles, sighing happily when Derek’s arms tighten around him. He turns his face a little bit, pressing his nose against Derek’s neck and breathing deep. Derek always smells so _good_ , like spice and woods and home, in a way Stiles totally doesn’t want to analyze right now, because he’s got bigger things to worry about. 

Except, really, everything he’s worrying over is related. And it all tracks back to the overgrown furball he’s cuddling. 

“We really don’t, if you don’t want to,” Derek says, but it sounds like he actually wants to talk, and that’s just too revolutionary to pass up. 

“No dice, sourwolf,” Stiles smirks, and when Derek doesn’t say anything, Stiles grins even more. “So… this. The snuggling. It’s good?” Derek rumbles low in his chest and Stiles takes that as agreement. “And you’d like to do more of it?”

“Lots,” Derek answers, voice just as low as the almost-purr he’d given a moment earlier. 

Stiles tries to smother his laugh, but Derek just sounds so _content_. It’s nice, to hear his voice in a setting other than ‘moody’. “And I assume you’d like this to be an exclusive thing? From what I understand, wolves don’t share well.” 

Derek growls, his arms tightening around Stiles for a minute. “Mine,” he says proudly, and then he buries his face in Stiles’s hair. Stiles chuckles. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles decides. 

“I’m not the one who talks in his sleep,” Derek says, and Stiles clearly needs to find out what he said because now Derek’s voice has gone higher pitched, like he’s nervous. 

He sits up a bit, pretending to ignore the whine Derek lets out when he does so. “What did I even say?” he demands. 

Derek’s eyes go soft, all melty and warm, and Stiles wants to fall into them and never come out. One of his hands comes up and traces Stiles’s cheekbone before curving around his jaw. For the longest moment he just stares, then he speaks. “You… you uh…” He trails off. 

“Spit it out, sourwolf,” Stiles says, his smile softer than his words. 

Derek closes his eyes and brings Stiles’s forehead down to meet his own. “You said you loved me.” Stiles freezes, blind panic filling his chest. His brain shuts down, and all he can think is _shit shit shit shit shit_. For once, Stiles can’t think of a thing to say, of a way to respond. His brain has failed him completely, and his mouth refuses to move to make up for it. 

Stiles has tried for so long to not think the words, to ignore the emotions as long as possible, convinced Derek Hale would never see him as more than a member of the pack. But now, the fact that Derek is still here, hasn’t run away yet– it makes him think he might’ve been wrong. 

But Derek’s eyes open up again, and they’re bright with tears and something else Stiles has never seen before, not aimed at him anyway. It’s warm, and soft, and blazing, and if he really thinks about it, it reminds him of the way his mom looked at his dad. 

“Don’t look so scared,” Derek says, his hand warm on Stiles’s face. Something kicks into gear, and Stiles’s mouth takes off. 

“Scared, who’s scared? I’m not scared, just, you know, sick and pretty feverish, and you know fevers cause weird dreams and they make you say weird things to and put those together with sleep talking and you wind up with some really weird things and–” Derek puts a finger over Stiles’s lips, stemming the flow of words. 

Derek huffs a laugh. “It’s okay, Stiles.” And just like that, three words, and Stiles is already relaxing. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Derek is still looking at him like he hung the moon. Stiles melts the rest of the way down and curls against Derek’s chest again, settling into his curves and edges like a puzzle piece. 

“Good. Okay is good. Good,” Stiles whispers to himself, but of course Derek can hear him. He’s almost completely settled when Derek speaks again.

“I love you too you know,” Derek says, his voice coming out rough like the words were difficult to pull out. 

Stiles stiffens again, but this time for an entirely different reason. He sits up completely, settling onto Derek’s hips. “You love me,” he repeats, awestruck. 

Derek nods. “Yes,” he says, just in case Stiles had somehow missed the single biggest revelation in his world. 

“You love me.” Stiles says it again, savoring the feeling of it on his tongue. “You love me. You, Derek Hale, love _me_.”

Derek is starting to smile now, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I, Derek Hale, love you, Stiles Stilinski.” 

“Let me make sure I have this. You love me. With me so far?” Stiles says, pausing to enjoy the words one more time. 

“I’m following,” Derek says drily, one corner of his mouth finally caving and lifting up in a crooked grin. 

“So you love me. You’ve announced your passionate ardor for me.” Stiles stops again, waits for Derek to nod, even if he pulls a face at Stiles’s phrasing. “So why aren’t we kissing right now?” Stiles finally asks.

Derek’s grin evens out, exposing brilliant white teeth. “Probably because you’re all the way up there, I’m all the way down here, and you’ve been sick most of the day.”

“Don’t be stupid, werewolves can’t catch the flu, and you know it,” Stiles says, smiling. Derek pretends to think for a second, then tugs Stiles down far enough that their lips are just a breath apart. “Don’t be an ass, kiss me.”

And then there’s no space between their lips, and _wow_ so this is kissing. It’s… it explains a lot frankly. No wonder all the other guys at school never talk about anything else because this… this is everything. 

Derek’s lips are gentle, a little moist but not too much, and god so _warm_. It kind of feels a little like Stiles is drowning, but in a good way, in a way that leaves him clinging to Derek and desperate for more. They slip apart for air, but Stiles can’t bring himself to go far. He just rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, feeling warm and pleasantly like Jell-O. 

Stiles grins, silly with whatever chemicals his brain is floating in. “You love me,” he says again, putting his forehead against Derek’s neck and sinking into the feeling of skin on skin. 

“Are you going to keep saying that?” Derek laughs, and god, Stiles can get used to that, _wants_ to get used to it so much, and can hardly believe he gets to. 

“Just until it stops sounding amazing– so yeah, pretty much forever, sorry,” Stiles says, completely unrepentant. Derek rolls his eyes and pulls him in for another kiss, this one just as soft and sweet. 

It’s shorter, though, and when they pull away, Derek just moves to press kisses along Stiles’s cheeks, temples, and jaw. “You love me too,” Derek says, and it sounds like a demand. Abruptly, Stiles realizes he hasn’t actually said it out loud, at least not consciously. 

He leans back, so Derek can see his eyes. 

“I love you, Derek Hale. So, so much.” And then, dammit, his eyes start to sting just a little, enough to announce the potential for tears, and that’s pretty damn girly, even for a guy as in touch with his feelings as him. 

Thank God, Derek seems to be having the same reaction, and after a brief pause, their lips meet again, this time firmer, more confident on both ends. “I love you,” Stiles gasps out between kisses, and Derek replies in kind. They press the words into each other’s lips, cheeks, necks, every bit of skin they can find. The frantic, overpowering sweetness swells and crests, and when it crashes it leaves them both panting and sinking into the couch cushions, curling together and cherishing the points of contact between them. 

Stiles is just starting to doze again, worn out physically and mentally, when Derek scoops him up. “Don’t worry, just taking you to bed,” Derek whispers. Stiles is too comfortable to point out the double entendre, or even to complain about being carried bridal style up the stairs, blanket surrounding him and trailing along the floor. By the time they reach the bed, Stiles is only an inch away from sleep. 

“Mmm, love you,” Stiles mutters one more time, falling back into the bed. Derek slides into bed with him, hands tracing idle patterns over Stiles’s bared arms. 

“Love you too, Stiles. Now get better, because as soon as you’re well, I’m taking you out on a date,” Derek promises, making Stiles the little spoon and whispering into the back of his neck. “Oh, and the pups may or may not want to give you the shovel talk.”

“S’okay. M’dad’s the sheriff,” Stiles slurs. “’N my boyfriend’s a werewolf. They can’t do anythin’”. 

Stiles can feel Derek smile against the back of his neck. “Good night, Stiles.”

“G’night.”

And he sleeps.


End file.
